


a song of silk and claw

by edelwoodsouls



Series: the spider and the wolf [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Dom/sub, Dual Avatar Theory, Explicit Sexual Content, Hunt Avatar Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Subspace, Trans Martin Blackwood, Trans Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Web Avatar Martin Blackwood, if u know me irl & u see this no u didnt, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-21
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-28 11:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30139110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edelwoodsouls/pseuds/edelwoodsouls
Summary: Tim is used to being in control.But with Martin, it only makes sense to let go.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Series: the spider and the wolf [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2195592
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	a song of silk and claw

**Author's Note:**

> set chronologically after ch 1 of _talk about silence and violence_ , but no need to have read that to read this ^_^  
> //  
> words used for tim: folds, clit

Tim has never prided him on his self control. He sees something, and he takes it - it’s what draws the Hunt, and the smoldering potential for the Lightless Flame, to his heels.

So he’s incredibly proud of his restraint tonight: they make it all the way to Martin’s apartment without breaking.

Not that Martin makes it easy. Touching their legs together, resting a hand gently but firmly against Tim’s neck.

It’s a strangely possessive gesture, and it makes Tim breathless.

At their stop, Martin threads his fingers into Tim’s, and leads him off the train. He barely has the presence of mind to tap his card, to take the steps up to ground level. The world is muffled, so hyperfocused on Martin that he would be utterly lost without him.

Tim isn’t used to being the submissive one in a relationship. He takes, and gives, and relishes taking his partner apart one breath at a time.

Here, there is no question of who is in charge. It feels so utterly right, following Martin’s lead. Everything Martin does, and takes, and gives, ignites a heat in the pit of Tim’s stomach. He can feel himself slipping into a twilight space of bliss, and it feels so good to not have to _think_. To let someone take care of him, and trust them with everything he has without fear.

And he _does_ trust Martin. Even for everything, he doesn’t think he’s ever trusted anyone more.

“We’re here,” Martin says softly, and Tim realises they’ve walked all the way to Martin’s flat without him registering a step.

Tim nods wordlessly, not sure he could form a single sound if he tried. The night air is cold on his skin, but he still feels too hot for his clothes. He needs Martin to take them off, now.

Martin smirks at him, as if reading his thoughts, and unlocks the door to his flat.

Even in this state, Tim’s curiosity comes to the forefront as he steps into this unknown world. The walls in the hall are painted a somewhat garish shade of yellow. There’s a carpet, some fractal-like, spiderwebbing pattern, that crawls across the floor. The hall table is piled with letters, stacked neatly.

He wanders through as Martin closes the door. There’s a kitchen, fully stocked and clearly organised, but in a dishevelled, messy way that suggests it’s used often. The fridge is covered in magnets - the sort you buy cheap from stall markets in Camden or Borough, from tacky tourist merch to strange black and gold gilded designs.

No photos, though.

The bedroom shows the most personality. A large wardrobe, a floor length mirror. More notebooks than any one man needs to own, discarded on any flat surface that will take them, weighted down by tape recorders, or pencils, or any random object that was to hand at the time. There’s a record player tucked into the corner, a shelf above filled to bursting with record sleeves and books stacked at any angle that will fit them.

The bed is large, and topped with so many blankets it looks more like a nest, a cocoon, than somewhere to lie down.

It’s such a- _normal_ living space, that for a moment it throws Tim for a loop. He’s forgotten, in this supernatural push and pull, that Martin is a human person, beneath his spidery limbs.

“Like what you see?” Martin asks, appearing at his shoulder without a sound. Tim barely even jumps, anymore.

“No cobwebs or flies,” he notes dryly, throat like sandpaper.

“I only get those out for special occasions.”

Tim tries for a laugh, but it comes out more as a breathless gutter. He can feel Martin’s heat, so close to him, that everything else is becoming rapidly unimportant.

“Can I make you a cup of tea?” Martin asks, finally coming into Tim’s line of vision. His voice is steady, but Tim can see his eyes, pupils blown, fixated on Tim’s lips, and hear his heart, thudding rapidly just behind his skin. “Or is that beside the point already?”

Tim tries for words, he really does, but all that comes is a shake of his head. He’s so overwhelmed already, he just _needs_. To be touched, to _feel_ , to find a release for the pressure building in his head.

Martin turns serious, reaching out a hand to cup Tim’s jaw. His fingers ghost against his skin like an open flame.

“If anything gets too much, you just tap my arm twice, okay? Or, if you can speak, you give me colours. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes,” Tim nods, breath coming easier with the grounding of contact. “Red, yellow, green.”

“Good,” Martin smiles. He uses his free hand to discard his glasses on the bedside table, not looking away from Tim for a second. “Can I kiss you?”

“God, please,” Tim breathes, and before he can take another breath there are lips against his. Soft, careful, learning the shape of Tim’s mouth. His eyes flutter closed as he leans into them, the warmth he finds there, and he reaches blindly to rest his hands at Martin’s waist.

They break a moment for breath, panting, but quickly return. Martin’s tongue licks, questioning, against Tim’s lips. His free hand reaches up to rest on Tim’s waist. The other reaches up into his hair, curls fingers there, pulling taught. It makes Tim gasp, open his mouth as heat floods into him.

From there, it’s as if a dam has broken. Martin’s lips become rough, determined, pushing against Tim, who pushes back in instinct, rising to the challenge. He’s dizzy, breathless, barely in his own body. Everything is this moment, this man.

Martin’s lips break away, and Tim whines at the loss of contact, opening his eyes to question, to demand their return- but Martin doesn’t give him a chance as he leans forward and puts his lips against Tim’s neck.

Tim lets out a groan as Martin touches his pulse point, licks at it, nips it with his teeth. His breath is little more than stuttering gasps, fingers fluttering into fists as the world turns hot, and heavy, and dark.

“Colour?” Martin murmurs, pulling away from Tim’s neck.

“Green,” Tim says, the words tumbling as fast as they can from his lips.

“Good,” Martin grins, “but you're wearing entirely too many clothes.”

His fingers make short work of Tim’s shirt, discarding it with practiced ease. His fingers brush against the scars on his chest, electricity sparking across Tim’s skin. His hands return to his hair, his lips pushing rough against him. They stumble back, together, until Tim’s back hits the wall, and Martin rests so close to him he feels pinned between two immovable forces.

“You’re beautiful,” Martin gasps between breaths. “Can’t believe I have you here. Can’t believe I get to take care of you.”

Tim moans wordlessly, reaching fingers under Martin’s shirt to feel the naked skin beneath. Martin gets the message, and in moments his is gone, too, leaving only a black binder, dark against the pale skin.

“This stays on,” Martin says, and Tim nods, and that’s that.

Martin’s arms reach down, so close to where Tim needs him, nails dragging like fire across his skin. His hand rests, so lightly it’s a crime, against his thigh. Tim whines, desperate for contact, and that hand begins a slow climb, coming to a stop hovering just there.

“These need to come off,” Martin decides, and makes short work of his belt, his trousers, until only his pants remains.

The hand returns, resting against Tim’s underwear.

He’s soaked through.

Martin groans against Tim’s lips. “You’re so… god, Tim, you’re so beautiful, so wet for me.”

“Need you-” Tim gasps, “need you on me. Need you _in_ me.”

Martin’s fingers dance, so close, as he returns his lips to Tim’s neck. The sound Tim makes is alien to his own ears, so desperate, half moan, half broken whine.

“Patience,” Martin says softly, and finally, _finally_ , his fingers rub against Tim through his underwear. His breath shorts out, as the ache meets its need, as the fire in Tim’s gut turns to liquid. His head falls forward onto Martin’s shoulder, clinging to him to keep himself standing.

“Martin,” he gasps, as the fingers slip underneath fabric, meet flesh and slick. His fingers dance around the folds, applying pressure without ever slipping in. Tim’s hips buck up towards Martin, stealing a groan from him as their hips meet. “Martin, please…”

“What do you need?” Martin takes his chin in one large hand, holds their eyes in contact. Tim can barely focus, the haze well and truly muffling his senses. He is afloat in an ocean, with only one direction of current.

“You,” he sobs. “Just you.”

“Let’s take this over there, hm?” And in one swift movement, Martin picks him up. Tim instinctively latches his feet around Martin’s waist as he is carried over to the bed, gasping as every step rubs against him.

Martin lets him down gently onto the bed, casting off most of the blankets onto the floor. Tim settles down, staring up at the man he has given himself over to completely.

“Where’s all that strength been hiding?” Tim asks with a laugh, looking up into Martin’s eyes, running a hand across large, muscled arms.

“Maybe I’ve been saving it just for you,” Martin smirks.

“It’s certainly a nice surprise.”

“Plenty more where that came from.”

“God, I hope so.”

From here, Martin doesn’t hesitate. He leaves a trail of kisses, fleeting fires, across his skin, watching with fascinated satisfaction as Tim moans and shivers, as his body jumps and dances in perfect tune with Martin’s ministrations.

His lips reach his underwear. He takes his time, inching them down his legs, letting Tim gasp as the cold air hits him. He can feel the slick between his thighs, the desperation for something, anything, _Martin_ , to fill him.

Martin doesn’t need any prompting. Before Tim can so much as reach for him, Martin’s lips return to his body- immediately pressing against his clit. His tongue flickers out, licking at the slick. His teeth scrape against the nub, and Tim lets out a high keen, hands flying to grasp Martin’s curls. He hooks his fingers into the hair, no other handholds in sight, and pushes his head closer.

Martin moans, and the vibrations shoot straight through him. His back arches, his moan choked in his throat.

“Colour?” Martin asks, coming up for air for just a second.

“Green, green, green-”

His voice is cut off as he feels a finger brush against his entrance. It pushes into him, so slowly it’s more like torture. Just a single finger is so _much_ , so thick, pushing against his walls. He’s so wet he’s practically dripping, so close he’s balanced on a cliff, ready to fall.

“Martin,” he gasps, “I’m close, I’m so close-”

Martin pulls his finger out almost entirely, and before Tim can complain, pushes back in. The movement is so sudden, so rough, plunging deeper than before, and Tim falls over the edge. His walls clench down, fluttering, clinging to it, as Tim’s hips buck into Martin’s face.

Martin presses his hips down and pushes a second finger in, slowly, beside the first. Tim is already still arched, pulled entirely taught by the first wave, that more stimulation only pushes him further over the edge. HIs vision whites out as his breath leaves him entirely. He’s so high he’s sure he’ll never come down, doesn’t think he'll ever want to.

He wants to cling to Martin forever, keep him inside him. He wants this fire, this bliss, to consume everything he knows, everything he _is_.

When vision and breath return to him, Martin is still pushing in and out of him, slowly, rocking him through the comedown. Every time he knocks against his clit, Tim lets out a soft whine, hips jerking away from the contact. It’s so much already, his body a mess of bliss barely held together.

“Think you can give me one more?” Martin asks quietly. Looking up from under thick lashes, mouth wet with Tim, eyes dark and hungry- how can Tim say anything but yes?

“It’s so much,” he whispers anyway.

“You can do it. For me.”

A third finger nudges at his entrance. At this point Tim is so wet that the tip slips in with ease. Slowly, so slowly, Martin pushes all three fingers in together. Tim’s gasps ratchet up an octave, as he’s spread so wide, so full, he knows after this he’ll always feel empty.

“Faster,” Tim begs, “please, Martin, need you, more-”

Martin obeys wordlessly, increases the pace, plunging his fingers in so fast Tim feels every nerve light across his body, an electric spark, a forest fire. Martin’s tongue licks at his slick, at his clit, pulling it into his mouth and sucking. Tim lets out a cry, bites down on the sound as it escapes him.

“No,” Martin says, stopping so suddenly that Tim moans at the loss. Martin looks directly at him, serious. “I want to hear you. Every noise, okay? You make the most beautiful sounds.”

Tim nods frantically, desperately, and Martin returns with vigour, fast, rough, and something opens up inside Tim. He cries out, sobs for Martin to touch him, to take him, to let him fall apart. Incoherent words, streaming out of him in a babble of hunger and ache.

The pressure builds again, slower this time, but so much stronger.

“So pretty for me,” Martin whispers, voice reverent and drunk with the scene. “Fall apart for me so good, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Tim agrees, barely present at all. He’s flying high, on the precipice. He wants to be good.

“Can you come for me, Tim? Just let go for me, you deserve it. _Come_.”

Tim cries out, louder than ever before, as he rushes to obey, to fall apart. The tidal wave overtakes him, body taught, teeth locked and head thrown back as everything inside him turns to fire. The world could end right now, and Tim would barely notice a thing.

He can't say how long the flames rage through him. Reality is an inferior thing, to the ascension he's just experienced. But eventually the world returns, bleeding in slowly, an incoherent mix of sight and sound that seem like nonsense to Tim's foggy brain.

His thoughts are distant and slow like syrup, the constant race brought to a standstill that makes TIm want to sob with relief. When was the last time his mind truly felt quiet? He can't remember, so ensnared in a cycle of tooth and claw and blood.

Martin's arms wrap carefully around him, brushing a stray hair from his face. His touch feels cool now, soothing, rather than the feverish fire of before.

He feels _safe_ in these arms.

Martin continues to murmur softly to him, praise and kindness weaving beneath him like a net to catch him as he falls, until the world begins to make sense again.

"Uh," he breathes, blinking up at the chipped plaster of the ceiling.

"That good?" Martin says, smirk evident in his voice.

TIm rolls over to look into Martin's eyes. "Thank you," he says, softly, as sincerely as he can. "Can I...?"

Martin shakes his head. "Maybe another time," he promises. "Besides, there's not really a need..."

"Am I really that attractive?" Tim laughs.

"You certainly are like this," Martin smirks. "Beneath my hands, falling apart so _effortlessly_ -"

"Okay, okay," Tim swats vaguely at Martin's hand. "Keep talking like that and we'll have to go again."

"Maybe another time," Martin repeats. "What you really need after all that exercise is a proper dinner. None of that cold tinned beans and mostly raw steak. Come on."

Before TIm can protest, Martin is heaving himself off the bed and dragging Tim with him towards the kitchen.

Tim lets himself be led. He trusts Martin, implicitly. And he realises, now, that he's forgotten what it is to truly _know_ another person. To let himself be known.

Maybe he has more potential for the Lonely than he realised.

But Martin reminds him what it's like to be actually alive, not just surviving. Martin leads him out of the darkness, towards a life he'd forgotten was possible.

And besides, he'd never say no to a homecooked meal.

**Author's Note:**

> first time publishing smut, wanted to try out writing something new (plus the vibes for this au were just. so much i had to do it,,,,)  
> //  
> the cup of tea allegory video from school would NOT leave my head the whole time i was writing this (growing up in the uk is the real haunting experience)  
> //  
> come find me on tumblr [@edelwoodsouls](https://edelwoodsouls.tumblr.com), im always around to chat :D


End file.
